


Slave Me

by skadi_zlata



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Slash, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skadi_zlata/pseuds/skadi_zlata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10038.html?thread=49833014#t49833014">for this prompt</a>. In the gambling dens of a vaguely AU London, John Watson has won and lost fortunes in a night. One evening he winds up playing with entirely the wrong crowd, the kind of people that make him feel he’ll be lucky to get out of there with his life – let alone anything else. But the announced prize is somewhat unexpected. It’s an abused slave with dark curly hair and mesmerizing blue-grey eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slave Me

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my betas mygoldenbuttons and mamishka (and also to my anonymous beta at Sherlock BBC kink meme) for helping me to edit this story.
> 
> It has been translated into Chinese by Apapa: http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?from=notice&tid=30901. This is a Chinese site, and you have to register to view it.

John is an experienced gambler. He can sense when it might be better to leave with a small gain rather than a lot of trouble. Not that he always sticks to his wise plans, though.

He has never been to this poker den before. Its owner, a small agile man dressed in an indecently expensive suit (worth more than John’s army pension), provokes hostility at first sight. He surveys the ill-lit room with a sharp gaze, absently caressing a young slave who kneels at his feet – running a hand across his back from time to time. The lad doesn’t look up. His shoulders are tense, fists clenched tight in his lap, fingers digging hard into the palms. It’s as if he is struggling to stay upright and motionless. Is he hurt?

No concern of mine, John tells himself hastily, despite the urge to ask this question. Most likely it would only start a senseless row. The master surely has his own ideas about the right ways of treating his property and wouldn’t even listen – he’d just call the bouncers to kick John out.

The crowd in the den is equally unpleasant, though equally wealthy. Criminals. God forbid that he annoys one of them in the slightest. They are obviously waiting for something, smiling, sharing whispers. John is about to quit before anything untoward happens… when it actually does.

“Isn’t it time to raise the stakes?” the owner suggests, yawning and stroking his slave’s dark curly hair. “The game is a bit dull tonight. We need to invigorate it. A tournament, then. And the final prize for the winner will be the most valuable thing in this room. Any guesses what it can possibly be? No? Here it is!” He tugs the slave’s hair harshly, making his head jerk back, so that everyone can see his pale face properly. Though it’s distorted by a grimace of sudden pain, it is strikingly handsome, even aristocratic, an example of a strange, unusual beauty. For a second, John looks directly into the wide, slanted, mesmerizing blue-grey eyes.

He can’t do anything; it’s useless to interfere. The situation is nothing out of the ordinary, especially in an establishment like this.

“My pretty boy,” the den’s owner murmurs fondly, “don’t wince, I’ll participate in the game too – and win, no doubt, so you won’t have to leave me. But I bet there will be enthusiasts who want to try their luck and enter the tournament nevertheless. This slave is a real wonder, worth fighting for,” he explains to the audience. “Not just a sex toy, not just a young arse to push your cock into. He’s always eager to take part in the process, to deduce your most cherished, secret whims and desires. Always able to guess what his master wants. He gets off on being that smart. And he is ready for new experiments, most of the time. If he isn’t, just punish him properly, and he will regret his disobedience.”

He looks down at his slave. “You did learn the lesson, didn’t you? My friends were extremely disappointed with your inappropriate behavior last week. Only Colonel Moran must have enjoyed you being restrained. Yes, they’ve been a bit rough, all of them, but you should have toughed it out; you are not in the position to be picky. Do you understand it now? Nod if you do. Good. Very good.”

He slaps the slave on the back with approval, and the young man shudders, biting his lower lip.

“Now, boy, show how compliant you should always be, otherwise we’ll have to repeat the lesson.”

The glossy black eyes of the den’s owner are bright with satisfaction as he gives the orders lazily.

“Stand up… unzip these nasty tight jeans… pull them down slowly... and the underwear too. Isn’t he a gorgeous creature? A quite serviceable cock – and the arse is even better, so taut, so inviting. Turn your back to our guests and bend… yes, like that… spread your cheeks with both hands… good boy. It’s a mystery how he keeps himself so tight despite the thorough use.”

The index finger runs around the twitching hole as a pointer.

“Amazing. Perhaps he knows some special exercises. Anyway, he looks presentable, doesn’t he? Bonus point – a dexterous tongue and no gag reflex. He’s in perfect health, I assure you, with no diseases common for his kind, and he recovers from small injuries nicely and stoically, though he may moan and howl sometimes when he gets too sore, but that’s more fun. I love to hear his voice when he’s saying nothing, just whining through gritted teeth.”

The whole time the young slave stays in the obscene awkward pose John can see marks on his back, under the hiked up shirt. Angry red welts. Was it a whip? Or a riding crop? Something painful enough. Other gamblers probably haven’t even noticed these signs of abuse. They are flushed with lust, enjoying the view. Perhaps even those who think themselves straight.

John can easily imagine the den owner’s “friends” taking the handsome slave from behind in turn, one after another, with the same predatory excitement that now fills the room. Squeezing those perfect buttocks, pushing their cocks into the tight ring of flesh. Again and again.

Poor lad.

Finally the slave is ordered to straighten up and to put on his jeans again. “But don’t fasten the zipper – our guests would like to take a closer look at your private parts… well, not very private, in fact, but still seductive. Go round the room, pay attention to everyone.”

And the young man obeys.

Yes, many gamblers use the opportunity to take a closer look. To touch. To push a finger past the waistline of his jeans just to test how tight he is. They are going to have their fun even if they don’t win. The room resembles a brothel with the only one man to satisfy all the clients. It’s almost a gang rape, though no cocks are involved.

John can’t stop staring, despite himself, though it’s all horribly wrong and disgusting. Maybe they think the slave enjoys it too, for he is clearly aroused, presenting himself so shamelessly, unbuttoning his shirt and letting them pinch his nipples, lush lips parted, his breathing shaky. A most persistent gambler even forces a short, hoarse groan out of him, examining and dilating his sensitive opening, commenting on the prize’s undoubted value with a lustful smile. A good boy.

But still… The few times John briefly catches the slave’s gaze, it’s utterly vacant, as if he’s not here; as if he is diverting mentally from this humiliating ordeal, from the inevitable reactions of his own body.

John has no intention of joining the abusers, but when the young man comes closer, he leans toward John – as if to kiss him unexpectedly, allowing the others to contemplate his gracefully arched back at the same time. And a soft whisper suddenly tickles John’s ear: “He licks his lips when he’s bluffing. But think twice before playing with him. Could be dangerous.”

***

After the prolonged tour round the room, the slave returns to his master – the shirt still unbuttoned, the fly of the jeans undone – and kneels submissively between his spread legs, following a scarcely noticeable sign. The den’s owner strokes the dark tumbled curls – once, twice, as if fondling a pet. “That’s for your obedience…”

Then a hard slap follows, so hard that it makes the young man’s head jerk to the side.

“And that’s for you being a cockteaser,” the master adds in a casual tone. “I may lend your arse to anyone I choose, and I’m delighted to see that you’ve learned to like it, but who told you anything about kissing? I don’t remember that, I really don’t. If you want to use your lovely fuckable mouth, I’ll provide a job for it later tonight, after the tournament.” Pressing a hand against the back of the slave's slender neck, he settles the young man’s lips intimately against the bulge of his groin for a few seconds, making the implication clear, then pushes him away. “Put your clothes in order and sit behind my chair. Your pretty face is distracting me. Now, gentlemen, let the great game begin. Who’s going to participate in it?”

Of course, it’s too late for John to quit. He’s been telling himself that he shouldn’t interfere, but after that whisper… how can he leave? An idiot he may be, but he can’t. Wasn’t it a plead for help, of a sort?

With no clock in the room, stuffy and thick with smoke, John can hardly tell how long it’s all lasting – the bets matched, the hands revealed, the tension never decreasing. All this time, the slave, pale and apathetic, curls up behind his master’s chair, forehead pressed to the backrest. He looks like he’s fighting dizziness that comes in waves.

The face of a young depraved martyr. Really somewhat distracting.

Don’t stare, John warns himself, concentrate. For it’s not just a game of chance, which is good – John doesn’t believe he’s lucky. It is mostly about estimating the probabilities and reading the opponents. He needs to be careful.

The players drop out one by one. Finally, there are only two of them left – John against the den’s owner. The stakes are high, too high. You will be ruined, John Watson, if you don’t fold – or win.

The den’s owner increases the bet. And licks his lips. A bluff, then?

This clue… what if it is a double bluff, a trick?

John looks at the slave again, with a spurt of sudden hesitation. The strange fascinating eyes are closed, but the features are still strained as if the young man is constantly on guard even when he’s dreaming…

Damn. He’ll take the risk.

There are exclamations of surprise as the cards are revealed, and the slave’s eyelids flicker – he wakes up from a nap of sheer exhaustion. John smiles at him – reassuringly, he hopes. It’s alright now. The den’s owner is unlikely to break his promise in presence of his criminal colleagues.

And yes, he’s wise enough to hide the rage under a mask of polite, caustic irony when John rejects his offer, a generous sum in addition to the pot money – instead of the announced prize. “You see, Mr. Watson, people get sentimental about their pets. It’s not that easy for me to part with my dear boy. I just hope you’ll treat him kindly. Don’t punish him too often with your cane and use his sexy arse thoroughly, so that he doesn’t get bored.”

The owner sends someone for the slave’s papers, and here they are at last. His ID (the name is Sherlock Holmes, John notices briefly) and his contract. Not a slave by birth. How the hell did he get himself into this trouble?

A proper gift deed is compiled and signed by the previous master and the required witnesses. It must be valid.

Now it is the time to retreat.

Sitting at a gambling table, John usually forgets that he’s limped. That there is a heavy wooden cane waiting for him at the armrest of his chair. Hobbling to the exit, with the handsome tall slave following him for a contrast, he feels the ugliness of his maiming more than ever.

“Ciao, my dear,” the den’s owner waves to his former property. “I’ve loved this. All the days and nights you’ve spent with me. And I hope to see you again.”

Judging by the tone, it can be interpreted as a threat.

The narrow and gloomy lane is dark. No lights here, with the exception of a few neon signs. The sound of John’s cane tapping on the pavement seems too loud.

The chill of the night is welcome, but probably not for Sherlock. He is clad in a thin shirt, he must be freezing. They need to catch a taxi, somewhere in a less deserted street…

“Three men,” Sherlock says flatly behind him. “Following us.”

***

For a brief moment, John deeply regrets that his gun is safely locked in a drawer at home. Certainly, the bouncers wouldn’t have let him pass to the den armed with a heavy SIG-Sauer (there is a golden rule – no skirmish within the establishment), but he could have hidden it somewhere outside, just in case… So stupid.

“If anything happens, run,” he says, turning to face the potential danger. “Call someone.”

Not that it will be of much help.

As the three men approach, they make their intentions unmistakably clear.

“Come here, boy,” suggests one of them, a sandy-haired burly chap. “Time to go home. You don’t want to be punished again, do you?”

He pays no attention to John, but his companions – subordinates – contemplate him with mocking smiles.

“I guess this cripple won’t cause us much trouble,” giggles the younger one. “Will you, limpy?”

John feels that his lips stiffen. A cripple. He grips the handle of the cane tighter, his heart pounding, the left hand slightly trembling – humiliatingly, treacherously.

“We have no instructions about the money he’s won. But I think we deserve a small compensation for extra work. What would you say, Parker?” the same guy inquires.

He comes closer to John, waiting for a formal permission from his boss to confiscate the cash.

Close enough.

A short vicious side blow with a cane across his kneecap – a howl of pain – another blow, quick and heavy, upon the head as he drops down to the ground like a bag of rubbish. Done with you. Who’s the cripple now?

The two adversaries dodge aside, swearing. No advantage of unexpectedness now. He won’t be able to incapacitate them both if they attack him simultaneously – so he throws himself against the closest assailant before the bully has an opportunity to reach for something in his pocket. A knife, no doubt.

He aims a stroke high, and the man is enticed to intercept it, guarding himself, and to grab the cane firmly with both hands, but John suddenly lets it go, disturbing his balance, and delivers a desperate left-handed blow with the fist upon his chin.

Out of the game.

All this time, for a few long seconds, he’s been expecting the other man to seize him from behind, but only now he has a chance to look back… and to see the last foe sprawled in the dirty pavement, Sherlock’s tall figure towering over him. “And that’s a lesson _for you_!” A heavy boot hits his clavicle with a snap. Broken, most likely. In addition to other damaged bones, as far as John can tell.

Sherlock looks at John, breathing unsteadily. His eyes are anything but vacant now, they are fierce and ecstatic. Suddenly he smiles – and John can only grin back foolishly. A small battle won.

But the triumph fades from Sherlock’s face too swiftly as he gingerly takes a few steps away from the groaning bruiser who’s incapable of standing up and leans to the nearest brick wall, so clearly worn out by this single burst of rage that John is afraid he’s going to slide to the ground too – and how the devil should he carry the man?

“Are you alright? Can you walk?”

Sherlock nods, and John lends his right shoulder for support, half-leading him and mumbling something more or less reassuring (that he’s a doctor, that they just need to get home – and everything will be fine). They leave the two unfortunate criminals still unconscious and the third one whimpering in agony. It’s probably wrong, but sometimes John has attacks of deliberate amnesia. He tends to forget the Hippocratic Oath in situations like this. There are people he’s not going to mend. Never.

By the time they catch a taxi, Sherlock is uncontrollably shivering from the cold. On the backseat of the cab he curls to his side uncomfortably, folding his arms across the chest and apparently trying not to graze the sore back.

“It’s psychosomatic, then. Your limp,” he says.

John blinks at him.

“Your cane,” Sherlock clarifies, unable to hide a faint smirk. “You’ve left it in the battlefield.”

“Oh, damn,” John says, with feeling. He has totally forgotten about the cane in all the fuss. Not a good idea to return for it. And it was rather expensive, not like the one from the hospital. You need to look respectable when you play with rich people, even of a criminal type.

“There was an actual wound, though,” Sherlock adds. “Shoulder. The left one.”

“How do you know?”

“You you’ve been rubbing it unconsciously from time to time since you saw me hitting Parker in the collarbone. You got shot.”

“I did, yes. How?..”

“A doctor. Well trained in martial arts. Not just a hobby. A fighter, accustomed to violence. Judging by the tan, I would say – with a history of military service somewhere in the eastern colonies. Not an accidental trauma, then. A gunshot wound, presumably. Serious enough to send you back to England. Any consequences, other than limping? What could it be?” he mutters to himself, without pauses, as if he’s expecting to be interrupted any moment. “A hand tremor? Oh yes, obviously. Your left hand twitched as Rob called you a cripple. Hence – no chances to return or to find a proper job here, otherwise you wouldn’t be professionally gambling. You don’t like it, playing cards with people of dubious decency, you’re just improving the state of your finances – besides, it helps you to forget your current disability.”

He looks away, staring in the side window. “But you know what – your hands never tremble during a game. Your limp disappears in presence of immediate danger. When you don’t have time to remember it. You would be fine if you could return to the military service. The sad thing is, your hands will probably shake during a physical examination, when everyone stares, when everyone expects you to be nothing but a cripple, so they won’t let you go back…”

John is silent for a while after this speech. Then he lets out a laugh.

“Yes… I suppose it’s true, yes. Perhaps… I should fire my therapist and hire you instead.”

Sherlock looks back at him. Surprised. The corner of his mouth jerks.

“That’s not what people normally say when I start prying into their affairs.”

“What do people normally say?”

“That I can save my mouth for other purposes, rather than inflicting my opinions on the world.”

John is almost silly enough to ask – what purposes.

“By the way,” Sherlock continues in a light tone, “you don’t have to hire me. Technically, I’m your property now. You can use me any way you like.”

***

The flat is silent and dark. John is the only tenant of the whole set of small gloomy rooms, and the rent is pleasantly low, for he has persuaded the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, to give him a special deal. They’ve been looking for a lodger in haste, leaving for the colonies – was it Florida? – and John has managed to present himself as their best choice. A war veteran, trustworthy and decent, who’s not likely to hold orgies on the roof, burn the kitchen down or hide body parts in the fridge.

After a long time of being alone, having another person in the living-room seems rather odd to John. But here he is – a complete stranger sitting on his sofa, wrapped in a blanket and cradling a mug of hot coffee with both hands but still shaking a bit from the cold.

John desperately wants to drop into bed after taking a shower, but there are some things that need his attention. Right now.

“Would you take off your shirt?” he suggests when Sherlock appears to have gotten warm.

Sherlock places the mug on the coffee table, with a small hint of hesitation, stands up and starts undoing his shirt, moving slowly like a man in a trance, exquisite fingers lingering against each button. Then, looking straight at John, blue-grey eyes wide and questioning, he reaches for the button on his jeans too.

“No,” John exhales hastily (Does he think… Does he expect, calling himself John’s property…). “No, that’s not what I... I’m not asking you to… I just want to take a look at your back.”

Sherlock nods – the expression on his face unreadable – and peels the shirt off. John notices friction burns around his wrists, clearly left by restraints… And there is something more. Distinct marks marring the crooks of his elbows. Traces of injections.

“Drugs?”

“Not in a while. I’m clean,” Sherlock responds, crossing his arms uneasily to hide the needle punctures, though it’s too late now. “Funny enough, withdrawal was meant as a punishment.”

“So… you were drugged when you signed that slave contract?” John assumes.

“That’s a good deduction, yes. I’ve been… reckless. Mixing with people I shouldn’t have faced alone.”

“You could have protested the deal, then. Not responsible for the actions taken, and all that stuff.”

“Oh but I tried to!” Sherlock laughs bitterly. “Didn’t end up well... You said you wanted to take a look at my back?”

He turns, and John can’t suppress a gasp of shock. Not only a whip. Not only once.

Oh, Christ.

“Not good?” Sherlock inquires wryly.

“A bit not good, yeah. How long…”

“Almost a week, this time. With intervals, so that I could recover more or less. He’s always been careful not to ruin his property entirely. And he never did it himself. Not the one who’s getting his hands dirty. Liked watching, though.”

John keeps staring at the mess of multicoloured bruises, broad welts and thin cuts, fresh over the older, healing ones. So bright in comparison with the milky white, tender skin. Careful. Good God. Careful.

“I suppose there will be no scarring,” he forces himself to say, “the lacerations are not deep, mostly, but you need a few stitches here.” He touches Sherlock’s shoulder lightly just above the gash, making him jerk involuntarily. “Is it a recent one?”

“Yes. Parker... he was carried away a little during the last… lesson.”

“Can you stand it if I close the wound now?”

It’s almost dawn. After a sleepless night, fatigue overcomes them both, but it’s an incentive to work faster, with mechanical efficiency. An additional lamp in the kitchen for better lighting… Some pain medication… A syringe filled with lidocaine, to numb the area around the gash… All the small scratches cleansed… Forceps, scissors, needles and a suture pack taken out from a well-stocked medical kit… A pair of sterile gloves…

Up to the moment when John clips the tails off the last knot, Sherlock stays compliantly still, not letting out a wince or a single hiss of pain. But as he tries to stand up too abruptly afterwards, he slumps forward all of a sudden, kept from falling on the floor only by John’s grip, and has to perch a hip on the kitchen table, leaning to John helplessly for a few seconds, his curls ticklish against John’s neck.

Which is surprisingly unsettling.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock mutters, “I just need to sleep for a while. Can I lie down somewhere?”

“Do you mind sleeping on the sofa?”

He doesn’t.

“Any relatives? Someone to inform about you?” John asks, contemplating the curve of Sherlock’s spine and the neat line of stitches on his shoulder as he settles down on the leather cushions, half naked, still in his jeans, and struggles with the blanket.

Sherlock snorts, face buried in the pillow. “And what would you say? Hello, here’s your Sherlock, my slave currently, he has spent all this time in the criminal underworld, mostly being fucked in the arse, sometimes enjoying it very much, especially when high? I’ve been trained to be a proper slut, you know. To please. To get off on it. Should you tell them something like that? So that they would feel pity for me – pity mixed with disgust?”

“I don’t feel disgust for you. Perhaps they won’t either,” John suggests.

Sherlock glances at him sideways, then drops his head to the pillow again. “They would have found me long ago if they wanted to. They have… resources. So let’s pretend I don’t have a family. Not that I blame them. I’ve never been a person worth looking for – you’ll probably see it soon.”

And with this promising assertion, he turns to face the backrest.

***

John is not particularly fond of his war nightmares. But he’d rather have one of them than the strange dream that invades his mind when he finally falls asleep at the break of dawn. It’s not exactly scary. It’s even pleasant, in a way. But that’s what is most appalling about it.

_…Sherlock, naked, with legs spread wide apart, is bent over the gambling table which is by some fiendish wonder transferred to John’s small kitchen. The cards are scattered all over it, and each one is blank, but John has no time to think about it. He’s stark naked too, and he is shagging Sherlock, to the accompaniment of encouraging whistling and applause from the whole crowd he has seen in the den – yes, they are all here, sprawled in chairs. Including the owner._

_“Good, Johnny boy, very good!” the black-eyed man purrs, with a crooked smile contorting his lips. “Go on, give us a first-class performance. Oh, I love to watch you both dance! Isn’t his body delicious? Of course, you won’t be able to cherish it for very long, but now you can take your time.”_

_And John does, to the vast entertainment of all present. In the dream, this ridiculous situation seems to be quite ordinary, except that John is slightly embarrassed to be the centre of attention – he always is. But every friction is a burst of pleasure, worth the discomfort, and John would only like to know if his… lover? slave? is enjoying it too, facedown on the green cloth, arms stretched across the table._

_“And what does it matter if he isn’t?” The den’s owner shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “He had it coming. But if you really care – his arse is able to appreciate your attention, so to say. Regardless of his will. He’s been aroused during that demonstration prior to our tournament, as you may have noticed. Well, he certainly does the best he can to keep his mind away from his body, that’s true, but his body is all you need for your satisfaction, actually. It bleeds when you cut it, it rouses when you touch it, so sensitive, so eager to respond… And to hell with his mind.”_

_This tenderly wicked tone is poisonous, and all the foul words are floating through the dark room, contaminating it. “Isn’t it the most interesting game to play – "Master and Servant"? Isn’t it nice to have him for your own needs, to take him whenever you want it, treat him like he’s nothing but a hole for usage?”_

_The man (What was his name? These whispers must have a name!) moves closer to John, runs a hand across the bare skin of his thigh and murmurs into his ear in a soft voice, just like Sherlock did: “He is here to please you, and I am here to watch your stupid moral principles burn down to ashes. For they will, Johnny boy, they will.”_

_John can’t stop, he doesn’t know if he wants to. He keeps moving with hard pushes all the way in, ramming Sherlock forwards, making him grab fistfuls of blank cards in a convulsive gesture. Until a groan breaks from the young man’s throat – an unwanted, muffled groan of anguish._

John wakes up with a sob, achingly hard, touching himself through his pyjama pants.

A nightmare. It’s only a nightmare. It means nothing.

***

Seeing Sherlock just a few minutes afterwards is rather awkward. This weird dream makes John feel a kind of guilt, as if he has really done something terrible, as if it turns him into one of Sherlock’s abusers.

But what should he do? Hiding in his own room the whole day is surely not the most brilliant idea.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“I have woken you up,” Sherlock says gloomily, sitting in the tangled folds of the blanket on the sofa and hugging his pillow.

John assures him that no, of course not – and then suddenly wonders if this groan from his dream was real. It’s possible, taking the acoustics and the thin walls of this old building into account. Nightmares, too?

Sherlock frowns.

“Tonight I’ve been a bit… unwell. Could have acted rather inappropriately. I haven’t even asked… How should I call you? Mr. Watson? Sir?”

“John. Please.”

“John.” Sherlock savours the name on his tongue – it sounds not as dull as it always does, and John turns away not to stare at his lips. At the oval areolas of his nipples… Just a dream, dammit!

He is waiting for the question that must be on Sherlock’s mind at the moment – “What are you going to do about me?” But Sherlock doesn’t say anything while John is examining the poor contents of the fridge in the kitchen – with no particular interest.

Maybe it’s obvious.

John hates bureaucratic intricacies, but they are inevitable. It usually takes almost a month to confirm a slave’s new status and to make a non-slave ID, after all the required papers have been filled, submitted and approved. All this time the master has a right to change his mind.

And the procedure is not free of charge, of course. It’s always easier to enslave a man than to disenthrall him. The system defends itself.

But it’s nothing too complicated, though it will take some time and money.

When he emerges from the kitchen to ask if a portion of Chinese takeaway will be fine, as a sort of breakfast (looks like it’s still edible), his temporary flatmate meets him with an odd gaze.

“John…” he begins, with effort. “It seems I haven’t thanked you. The thing that you did… that was… risky, you knew it, and then, in the street… when you said 'run'…” He stands up from the sofa, eyes fixed on John, bare feet stepping softly, noiselessly, as he comes closer. “There is not much I can offer you in return. It’s only me. But… in the den… you were interested, weren’t you?”

John should have stopped it at once.

But he stands transfixed as Sherlock slides down, kneeling before him, rubbing his face across John’s hip, both hands skimming the curves at the back of his calves, knees, thighs.

He _was_ interested. God help him. He was. And he is _very_ interested now.

It’s like a sequel to his dream.

Sherlock unbuttons his jeans, lips parting unhurriedly to touch him through the cotton of his underwear, eyes totally vacant…

“No,” John orders unsteadily. “Don’t.”

He takes a step back. His knees are weak, almost shaking. And another step… It’s an instinctive retreat – he just turns and leaves the room, perplexed and ashamed, not trusting himself to stay a minute longer. He doesn’t know what to say.

Sherlock must hear his footsteps on the stairs some time later and the bang of the front door closing – but he doesn’t follow.

…John returns only in the evening, tired and still confused, half sure that he will find the flat empty – and what he’s supposed to do then?

It was selfish to run away like this. To leave him alone. Without checking the sutures, without asking if he needed more pain medication… Only to save _himself_ from the temptation of using this man like others did. (All this time he couldn’t stop thinking what it would feel like… Sherlock’s mouth, warm and wet… his own fingers entwined in Sherlock's hair… Oh, you’re sickening, John!)

In the twilight of the living-room, the tall figure on the sofa is a frozen part of darkness. When John switches on the light, Sherlock doesn’t turn to look at him, staring at the opposite wall.

“I’ve disappointed you,” he says in a strange tone, indifferent and strained at the same time. “A miscalculation again. Now you _do_ feel disgust for me. Sorry to offend your modesty, but that’s what I am now.”

***

If John had a vivid imagination, he could have convinced himself that he still lived alone. It’s not that he wants to. And not that he has one, anyway.

But still, it would be easy. Sherlock doesn’t talk for days on end, gives brief answers when asked but otherwise remains silent and almost motionless, spending most of the time upon the sofa or in the leather armchair, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle.

He can agree to eat something (if John offers him a plate) or tell that he’s okay for a bit, which happens more often. He can sleep for a few hours or just lie with eyes closed as a sign not to disturb him. He can look through the newspapers that John keeps bringing – but rather apathetically. He’s simply existing somewhere in the corner of John’s sight. Sometimes ignoring him. Sometimes following his maneuvers around the living-room and the kitchen with an unflinching, unwinking, unnerving stare.

Of course, John has made an attempt to start an uneasy conversation that evening, on the whole reduced to a hasty “don’t-get-me-wrong” plea and a muttered “let’s-pretend-that-nothing-has-happened” request (“Nothing, yes,” Sherlock’s voice echoes back – and that is the end of the dialogue).

They are still playing this “make-believe” game.

John tries to concentrate on practical issues. With all the amount of money he’s won, he has no need to hang around the dens gambling here and there, but the list of things to be done is long enough to keep him busy for a while. Sherlock needs new clothes, at least something basic, while he’s recovering (he is, though his back still looks horrible). And some other small items are necessary, too, like a second toothbrush in the bathroom. Besides, there is always something to do about the house. If Sherlock were his flatmate, John could ask him to wash dishes from time to time or clean the stove. But it’s somewhat more complicated with a man who is formally your slave. It would look like an order. Therefore, John prefers to do everything himself. No big deal.

Sherlock shows little interest in anything, but one day, when John returns home, laden with groceries, he finds Sherlock surfing the internet. On John’s computer. Slightly taken aback, John dumps the bags on the counter with a bang. “How did you?.. It’s password protected!”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock sniffs with disdain, still staring at the screen. “Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox.”

He snaps the lid of the laptop shut (John barely registers the words “this page doesn’t exist”), moves the computer aside. And freezes, fingers interlocked under his chin, elbows on the desk. The grey t-shirt only highlights his pallor (John has never been good at choosing colours, what goes best with what).

It looks like Sherlock is waiting.

“Get on with it. Will you do something?” he asks at last, almost with irritation.

John blinks, realization dawning.

“Do you think I’ll punish you?!”

A slap, a punch – that’s what he’s waiting for. Or something even worse.

“Will you not?” Sherlock demands. “Why are you so hatefully patient? I’m obviously annoying you, and now it must be the last straw. Should I do something even more infuriating to make you react? I know where your gun is,” he adds, with a mixture of warning and challenge. “What if one day you come home and see me sitting here and shooting that wall, simply out of boredom, just because I feel that my brain rots? What will you do then?”

“Then… well…” John sighs. “Then I’ll probably have to pay extra charge to our landlords if they ever notice the bullet holes and put it on my rent. So please could you save me this problem?”

Sherlock groans and drops his head upon his hands.

“It can’t be that you want me to punish you,” John assumes rather dubiously.

“Sometimes it’s better to feel something… physical,” Sherlock says in a monotonous voice. “Something unpleasant and intense enough to divert you. Helps you not think.”

Then he looks up, and for a moment John wishes he didn’t. It’s a blank stare. There is nothing in these eyes, nothing, and John would rather see them fierce and frantic, just like after that fight outside the den. Bright with excitement, dangerous, fascinating… and definitely alive.

That reminds him of something he should have probably said long ago.

“Sherlock… When we were attacked, and I said “run”, and you didn’t… I guess you know… I wouldn’t have coped alone. It looks like you’ve saved my life.”

Sherlock winces. “You wouldn’t have been there, in first place, if not for me.”

“That was my choice. And not to run – it was yours.” He coughs and changes the subject awkwardly. “How did you guess my password? I’m just curious. Are you a computer expert, or something?”

Sherlock waves a hand nonchalantly. “Child’s play. It’s not about technologies at all, it’s about people who choose passwords.”

“So you can read people. Not only me, I suppose. Could be a great skill for a gambler.” John rubs his chin thoughtfully… and suddenly asks: “What do you think about cheating?”

“Cheating whom, exactly?”

“Um… Not very nice men.”

Most likely, it’s not a good plan. A very stupid one. But it can provide a temporary distraction for Sherlock. And if John’s moral principles are going to crumble – it’s better this way.

At least, Sherlock sounds intrigued when he suggests: “Explain.”

***

“It’s not cheating at all,” Sherlock says. It sounds like an accusation. As if John has promised him a toy pistol and now holds out a teddy-bear – a nice one, yes, but that’s not what Sherlock has been expecting. “If I am just supposed to watch the gamblers and let you know who’s bluffing and who’s colluding, we’ll be doing nothing wrong from a formal point of view. I’m yours, right? Therefore – the information I possess is yours too.”

“I’m not sure other players will be of the same opinion,” John mutters, shuffling a deck of cards.

It would be much easier, of course, if they could play as a team, telling each other their cards to gain an advantage at the poker table. It’s no problem to develop a secret system of signs. But the main difficulty is that a slave won’t be allowed to participate in a game. Certainly, no one’s going to check Sherlock’s ID, but if someone recognizes him and asks for it… well, that could be an uneasy situation for them both.

John feared that Sherlock would object to going out as his slave and sitting by his side in a gambling house. But it seems that Sherlock is so wretchedly bored that he doesn’t mind.

“Do you ever really cheat?”

“Only if others do. You could call it self-defense, I guess. Sometimes it’s better than to accuse a conman of playing dirty. Helps you avoid a conflict. Don’t like starting quarrels.”

“I’ve noticed,” Sherlock chuckles, watching John’s hands with fascination as he fishes out the same ace of spades from the deck while mingling the cards, over and over again.

“A surgeon should have manual dexterity,” John tells him, hoping that he doesn’t sound too bitter. “Are you ready? Let’s go out and have some fun.”

It was Sherlock who suggested they should try their luck in Chinatown. Maybe the main reason was that he didn’t want to meet any of his former abusers again, John thought. Slight chances, indeed, that any of them will be seeking entertainment in that part of London. Not really their area.

The first game proves that Sherlock could be a catch for grifters. A brief exchange of glances, a sign, a whisper – and John knows more about his opponents than he wants to while Sherlock remains unnoticed. Who will pay attention to a slave somewhere in the background?

They leave the gambling den almost in the morning, loaded with cash, laughing somewhat inappropriately in the street, still excited. It seems that Sherlock has been playing the role of a slave, like a conman in disguise, and enjoying the opportunity to stay invisible but to pull the strings surreptitiously at the same time, telling John what to do.

John is a bit surprised that it was fun for both of them.

The next games are even more successful. But being a gambler always means you can get in trouble most unexpectedly.

The name of the den they’ve chosen this night is very promising – “The lucky cat”. Outside it is just an old Chinese emporium, tiny and dingy, quite unsuspicious, with cheap ceramic figures, paper lanterns, fans and sashes, and incense burning. However, there are other premises at the back of the house. An old-fashioned “opium lounge” (with all kinds of illegal substances to be suggested) and rooms for gambling, lit with fluorescent glow.

Sherlock is secretly studying the players with a keen look, but before the game has even started, John decides that it’s better to do without Sherlock’s deduction tricks this time.

“That man… Sherlock, don’t stare!”

“You were staring.”

“We can’t both stare. Do you know who that is?”

“A member of a Chinese crime syndicate… Very powerful… Not yet accustomed to be the boss, though, he’s been just a henchman first… And…”

“To be short, he’s the new general of the ‘Black Lotus’,” John interrupts him. “Zhi Zhu, the Spider. Vindictive as hell. I wouldn’t like to make him cross, actually.” Suddenly he almost giggles, unable not to share a gossip. “They say his sister works at the British museum – would you believe? Probably she’s his consultant on the antiquities, Zhi Zhu has been selling them on the black market for quite a while.”

“Oh. That’s who Shan’s successor is, then,” Sherlock murmurs, to John’s surprise, and adds in explanation: “I’ve seen her. A very elegant woman, that’s who she was, if not a very pleasant one. She had… a slight misunderstanding with my previous owner.”

Before John can say anything in response, a few things happen simultaneously. There are shouts outside, and sounds of struggle, and all the gamblers spring to their feet as the door flings open and uniformed policemen burst into the room.

It’s a drugs bust.

***

While the organized crime unit is busy searching the “opium lounge”, the gamblers have to wait in the poker room for someone to decide their fate. John is gradually reconciling with the inevitable prospect of spending the rest of the night in a nick when he suddenly hears a familiar voice at the door. If you are a frequent guest of various disreputable establishments, it’s certainly useful to be on friendly terms with a few police officers.

“Hey, Greg!” John digs his way through the sullen Chinese, leaving Sherlock behind for a moment. “Why are you here? On a drugs raid? I thought you were after maniacs, not drug dealers!”

“I volunteered,” Greg says more or less cheerfully, shaking hands with John. “A part of our investigation. Smuggling, murders, and other delights. You are still seeking adventures in the most notorious dens, all on your own again?”

“I’m not alone, actually. I’m here with my…”

“…colleague,” Sherlock’s low voice intervenes suddenly (God, this man moves like a cat, you never know when he’ll be standing right behind you!). John turns around, but Sherlock is looking past him, a rather tense expression on his face. “Hello, Detective Inspector.”

To John’s surprise, the DI suddenly greets his “colleague” with a grin. “Sherlock! Where have you been all this time? I had a couple of interesting cases, thought you’d be haunting me to interfere. We’ve caught a serial killer recently.”

“Oh, yes, it was in the newspapers. The fourth victim turned to be clever enough to see that his gun was a fake and to run away. And then – enter our heroic police force. Great job. Congratulations. I believe they call that a result.”

Greg’s smile fades a bit (but not completely) as he waves a hand carelessly, addressing to John again. “He’s always like that. I wonder how you put up with him. Colleagues, eh? You must be helping him on a case, then?”

“Sort of,” John admits cautiously. It’s not a proper time to ask questions, clearly, though he’s got some. “Listen, Greg… What if we just slip off? No need to mention us in the report. I mean – you know us, we are no junkies.” (How pretty fortunate that Sherlock is wearing a long-sleeved shirt!) “It was just a get-together around the card table. Nothing criminal. If someone would like to interrogate us still, you know where I live, and Sherlock is currently staying with me.”

A woman with a cloud of curly hair calls out for Greg from the entrance and suddenly stops to stare at Sherlock.

“Hello, freak. Where have you got this artsy-fartsy shirt? Looks like it’s a few sizes too tight.”

“Absolutely no idea. His choice,” to John’s utter confusion, Sherlock nods at his direction. “Ask him if you want to buy something like that for Anderson.”

Greg looks at John rather suspiciously. Then he glances at Sherlock. Then back at John.

“Greg,” John says quickly, before the situation becomes even more awkward. “I really would be much obliged if you could bail us somehow…”

Greg gives an uncertain grimace in response. “I’ll talk to the guys, let’s see what we can do… I’m coming, Sally, just a minute! Sherlock, it was nice to see you. Whatever reasons you have to be here… try not to get John in trouble, okay? Be a good boy.”

Turning to go, he doesn’t notice that his last words hit Sherlock like a slap.

***

Apparently, Greg has used his best negotiation skills on the organized crime unit. Just a few minutes afterwards, they are free to go. Though no one has vouched for Zhi Zhu, he’s long gone by the time they leave. A secret door, perhaps. A well-chosen moment. Surely he has reasons to skip the interrogation formalities too.

In a cab, Sherlock breaks the silence first.

“I said we were colleagues. Couldn’t think anything more appropriate at the moment.”

He doesn’t ask if it’s alright, but John answers nevertheless.

“No problem. In fact, I was going… but never mind… 'a colleague' sounds much better. Even if someone tells Lestrade you were there as a slave, he’ll probably think it was kind of going undercover. In case you don’t want him to know...”

“They would all die laughing!” Sherlock almost spits these words out. “Sally, especially.”

John tries to change the subject. “So you are a private detective. I should have guessed.”

“I _was_ a detective,” Sherlock says in the same tone that doesn’t encourage further inquiries.

John sighs. He doesn’t need to use his imagination to understand what it feels like when your whole life is blown up, when all your plans, your hopes, your dreams have been smashed into shattered pieces. Much to reconsider while you are lying in a hospital, your shoulder being butchered time and again – a string of surgeries, that’s how they call it. You can’t help but hear what other doctors are saying – nerve damage, most likely, which means you will be nothing but a cripple, with no chances to return to the army as a surgeon or a soldier. And you are numb and disbelieving, for how could it happen to _you_?

Then you meet someone from your past, a former mate, and he tells you with a huge smile: “I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?” How can you describe to him _what_ happened? How can you say that this morning you’ve been contemplating your gun for a few minutes, quite blankly, with no intention to use it, of course, just with a thought that no one will notice your absence for quite a while if you do, right now? Only your therapist will be slightly annoyed when you’ll miss the appointment again.

John scrubs his face with both hands. “God, I need to sleep… Tell me frankly, is the shirt really so horrible?”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, “A matter of taste,” and adds almost half a minute later: “I like purple.” And, in another minute: “Lestrade was right, wasn’t he? About getting you in trouble. You had no need to go gambling tonight, it was for my sake. And this place was my choice…”

John breaks him off: “It seems that I’m quite capable of getting in trouble myself.” The rest of the way, they keep staring at the side windows. No more attempts at a conversation.

After they return home, John trudges to his bedroom, intending to fall down on his bed like a heavy sack. Sherlock, not drowsy at all, turns on John’s laptop. Without asking for John’s permission. Does he think it’s alright since John hasn’t killed him on the spot at once?

Apparently, there’s no point in changing the password.

Half dozing, John catches himself on a strange thought: such seemingly irritating trifles wouldn’t be a big problem if Sherlock lived with him permanently. A small price to pay for not being alone.

They would purchase a proper bed for Sherlock, then – there is another room upstairs, still unfurnished…

But Sherlock is not here for long, John reminds himself. It’s better not to imagine he could be. Sherlock needs to forget what had happened to him. To start a new life. It’s rather unlikely he’ll choose to stay with a witness of his humiliation as soon as he is free to go. Even if this man makes no advances, despite his obvious interest.

John feels bloody pathetic because, introducing Sherlock to Lestrade, he was going to say “my friend”.

Luckily, he wants to sleep so much that he’s unable to think about it any longer.

***

It’s still dark when he wakes up from a bad dream. No Afghanistan anymore. All of his current nightmares are dedicated to Sherlock, as well as all his thoughts while he is awake. This time, he dreams of a torrent splashing and roaring while he is calling out Sherlock’s name, unable to discern any sounds, except for this constant deafening rumble, and of the spray rolling up from an abyss – not droplets of water but blank cards flinging into his face as he tries to balance on the edge, peering down. All of a sudden, it seems to him that he can hear Sherlock’s voice, somewhere far, far away… a groan… a half-human whine…

In the silence of his flat, peaceful and quiet, John lies still and motionless for a minute or two, contemplating the darkness. Then he perceives the same sound again. Not just a dream, then.

He steals into the living-room uncertainly, arms folded across his chest in a vain attempt to hold on to the warmth of his abandoned bed.

Sherlock is breathing erratically, with a hoarse, gasping sound, sprawled on the sofa facedown and clenching his pillow with both hands. Now and then, an exhale turns into a moan, stifled, short, as if Sherlock tries hard not to cry out in his sleep.

John comes closer. “Sherlock?”

No response.

“Sherlock?” John calls him again, louder this time, and touches his shoulder lightly.

Sherlock jerks violently, turning, grabbing John’s arms, struggling, thrashing… John could have easily seized and held him down until his body, still possessed by a dream, ceased wriggling, but he lingers for a second, hesitating, and the next moment they almost bash into the coffee table, and John ends up pinioned to the floor. Sherlock’s face – above him – so close… The slanted eyes, strangely dark in the dimness, blink and stare at him, uncomprehending.

“John?”

“Sorry,” John mutters awkwardly, not even trying to break free, uncomfortably aware of every point where Sherlock's body is pressing up against his own. “Just wanted to wake you up. It seems you had a nightmare.”

Sherlock lets out an amused chortle, settling back upon the sofa, thank God. “He’s sorry! I’ve almost strangled him – and he’s sorry! Why didn’t you fight back, restrain me somehow?” He falls silent, then says quietly: “Oh. You didn’t want me to wake up and think for a moment that someone was forcing himself on me… John, you’re so considerate that it will kill you someday.”

John grimaces, rubbing his bruised elbow and making no attempt to stand up, leaning to the sofa instead. “I’ll take the risk.”

A long pause. Sherlock is fidgeting under the blanket. Nuzzling his face into the pillow. Curling into a ball. Stretching himself again. Then there’s a hollow sound – an angry punch against a leather cushion. “Oh hell. Hate it! All this rubbish in my head, I can’t delete it… I’ve disturbed you again.”

John would stroke Sherlock’s arm soothingly, but he isn’t sure if it is alright to touch him. “Actually, it’s no fault of yours that I’m awake,” he says instead. “I had a nightmare too. And yeah, it _was_ hateful.”

Sherlock huffs, “Too many nightmares for one flat, don’t you think?”

“Do you mind if I keep you company for a while?” John suggests, tentatively. “It’s unlikely I’ll be sleeping again. Should I turn on the light?”

“No. Don’t.” Sherlock warns him rather sharply, then adds, more evenly: “There’s no need to keep vigil over me if that’s what you are offering. I’m not afraid to stay alone in the darkness, John, I’m not so childish.”

“It’s not that bad. Being childish, I mean. There are a few nice childish remedies for nightmares. Telling each other funny stories in turn, for example.”

“I don’t know any.”

“Well, I do. I could tell you.”

Sherlock gives an odd little sigh. “It’s for my sake again, not for yours, isn’t it? How quaint.”

“What is?”

“You are. Why do you care if I’m alright, John? No one else does. People who know me. People who think they know me. Nobody seems to be concerned that my website doesn’t exist anymore because I’ve ceased paying for the hosting. And I’ve checked my e-mail… shouldn’t have looked at all… At first, there are requests, cases suggested, cases that I’ll never solve… and then, after a few weeks – it’s only spam. Since I can’t help, since I’m of no use, why bother what’s happening to me.”

“It’s not the best way to get rid of your nightmares, thinking of that,” John says tutorially. “Now, close your eyes. Settle yourself comfortably. Imagine I’m your elder brother who’s going to tell you about his marvellous adventures in Afghanistan.”

“Elder brother… God forbid!” Sherlock laughs quietly. “No, you’ll be my colleague, another nightmare watcher. Why are you still sitting on the floor, though?” Not waiting for John to answer, Sherlock grabs the backrest cushions, one after another, throws them aside and moves over, making more space for John. “Come here.”

It’s strange to lie beside him like that, in a tangled nest of bedclothes. To tell stories in the dark. Not the ones about dried blood, maddening heat, and friends dying, of course. John tries to recall the most amusing and ridiculous situations he’s been into, fishing them out of his memory just like trumps from a deck of cards, and if he portrays himself as a little bit stupid sometimes, what does that matter? To tell the truth, his stories are slightly involved (he’s never been a good storyteller, hence his failed attempts to write something in a blog), but Sherlock snorts drowsily a few times, and half an hour later he is sleeping, his head pressed to John’s shoulder – fortunately, the right, uninjured one. It will be numb soon, aching badly by the morning, but John lies still, listening to Sherlock’s breathing, shallow and even, feeling it against his skin through the thin layer of fabric – a warm spot on his cotton t-shirt. He’s going to spend the rest of the night like this. In a brief illusion of intimacy, not just physical proximity.

It won’t last for long.

Soon it will be over.

And then – an empty flat and nights of gambling that help you not think.

But now he can bend his head gingerly and kiss these dark curls – perhaps, lingering a moment too long for it to be just a brotherly gesture.

Sherlock is asleep, he will never know.

***

The “morning after” is surprisingly ordinary. It’s like they’ve been sleeping together for years and nothing special has happened. Or like nothing has happened at all. John cooks scrambled eggs, yawning, Sherlock nicks a slice of tomato in the process, quite automatically, instead of waiting for a solid meal. It’s just everyday trivia they could share waking up in one bed every morning, that’s why it’s almost heartbreaking, too hard to endure.

John declares that he has to do the shopping, though they don’t need anything urgently, in fact. He just needs some air.

A miserable attempt to run away again.

The items he loads into a basket in the nearest store are a random choice. Milk, lettuce, beans. He tries to concentrate on boring, routine stuff. Mundane is good sometimes. Mundane works.

It’s better than thinking of the warmth of Sherlock’s body right next to him, for it feels like betraying Sherlock’s trust.

John doesn’t hurry on his way home. At first, he barely notices a sleek black car slowly moving along the street beside him. Very slowly. Too slowly. He’s about to cross the street rapidly – just in case – when his phone rings. “Mr. Watson.” An unknown ingratiating voice. “We should have a talk regarding one Sherlock Holmes. It might be of some interest to you. Just get into the car that is following you, and I’ll be happy to give you a lift home while we are discussing the matter.”

“I’d rather not,” John scowls. “Why don’t you come out and have a walk with me if you have something to say?” When one has to deal with criminal classes from time to time, one learns to be cautious. Let yourself be stupid enough to get into an unknown car – and then you’ll probably find yourself in an empty warehouse somewhere in the docks, handcuffed and wondering how the hell it could happen. No-no, it’s much better to discuss things in public places.

For a moment, John has an apprehension that it must be a henchman of Sherlock’s previous owner who’s found them at last. But his inner alarm has gone off without reason this time, apparently. The man who emerges from the car is amazingly elegant, in an old-fashioned way. Not exactly the looks of a minor criminal who runs errands.

“Who are you?”

“Let me introduce myself,” the gentleman suggests politely, in contrast with John’s sharp tone. “I’m the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?”

“His brother.”

 _“Elder brother… God forbid!”_ Sherlock’s laughter echoes in John’s head.

“May I see your ID?”

Sherlock’s newly found relative sighs, wrinkling his sharp nose disapprovingly: “Trust issues, as your therapist would say. Here it is.”

Mycroft Holmes, it reads.

“How do you know what my therapist says? Who gave you my number?”

“Well… I have resources,” Mycroft responds with somewhat overstated modesty, and John recalls that Sherlock said something just like that about his family. _They have resources._ “But let us discuss the most important matter at first. The one concerning my brother. I know about his… current connection to you. I could offer you a meaningful sum of money, sufficient to ease your way, if you sold him to me.”

Sherlock was wrong, then. His family has been searching for him!

John’s lips twitch in a smile: “No need to waste your money. He’ll be free soon. I’ve already submitted an application to disenthrall him, almost three weeks ago.”

Mycroft Holmes gives John a small smile in return. It could be charming if his eyes were smiling too.

“I know,” he says.

John frowns slightly. “I don’t understand.”

“That is how I’ve found you, Mr. Watson,” Holmes the Elder explains patiently (Sherlock says “But it’s obvious!” almost with the same condescending look on his face). “For God’s sake, I hope you don’t think I’m a criminal mastermind, one who is capable of abducting your therapist and watching you through CCTV cameras to hunt you down! You see, it happens that I work for the Government – just a minor role, really, but still of some influence. Thus, I’ve been informed of your petition, though with a significant delay,” he winces as if he has a toothache, “or I would have paid you a visit much earlier. But you can imagine this bureaucratic machinery, it’s so sluggish… It was easy to learn your name and your data indicated in the said application, but I considered it necessary to make a more intricate study of you before suggesting a deal, for it is an extremely delicate subject to discuss. I hope I haven’t frightened you by my sudden intrusion.”

John shrugs. “No, not at all. You don’t seem very frightening.” There is something wrong in his fascinatingly smooth speech, but John is even more sluggish than the bureaucratic machinery, unable to catch a disturbingly important detail.

Mr. Holmes provides him with a restrained smile again. “I prefer not to embarrass Sherlock by talking over the details of purchase in his presence, hence – a meeting in the street. You shouldn’t worry about his fate once you sell him to me. He’ll regain his citizenship, of course. Moreover, I am going to offer him a job in the Middle East, appropriate to his brilliant mental abilities – an opportunity to forget the whole… misadventure.”

John shakes his head. “I still don’t get it. He is about to be free in a few days, anyway. If I give him up to you, you’ll have to submit an application once more. He’ll be waiting another month!”

Mr. Holmes stretches his lips into a more benevolent smirk. “But wouldn’t he feel less troubled if freed by someone from his loving family? Spending this time at home? Besides, I hope he’ll be wise enough to understand he should be grateful for being restored to liberty on any terms. How very interesting that you are concerned about his psychological comfort, though. So kind of you, despite the troubles he surely has caused. He must have been extremely annoying right from the start, given your decision to get rid of him the next day after the purchase. What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I would imagine. Or may it be that his temper has been reined in by the misfortune he’s been through?” Suddenly he breaks himself off: “Oh, it’s all irrelevant. Perhaps we should continue our conversation in a more suitable place – if you don’t hesitate to get into my car anymore.”

But a tiny red alarm light is still twinkling. “Wait a minute. You said someone informed you… you seem to know all the details of my application… But the process of enthrallment – it requires lots of paperwork too, a contract, a new identity card, and it’s the same department, why didn’t they report to you then, why now?” It’s a strange uneasy look on Mycroft’s face that makes him guess, disbelieving: “You _knew_ he was a slave?!”

“I did, yes,” Mr. Holmes concedes, reluctantly. “Sherlock is my brother, after all, though we have what you might call difficult relationships. Of course I was worried about him when he went missing. I took effort to find him. To my utter regret, it was impossible to help him immediately.”

The following pause is uncomfortable, and Mycroft continues, explaining himself: “It’s all about family reputation. Sherlock’s enthrallment was clearly a result of a personal feud, but if it became apparent that his relatives – people of wealth and a certain position in society – were extremely interested in delivering him from bondage… we’d be ruined. Those criminals he was imprudent enough to deal with would certainly take the opportunity for blackmail. I’m informed that Sherlock has been providing services of… indecent character to his master,” he grimaces fastidiously. “It could be a horrible disgrace for the whole family, and for me personally. Despite my humble role in the Government, I am in control of some things which could be deemed important to national security. For a man of my position, even gossips are undesirable.”

“Yes, it all must be very inconvenient,” John responds in a colourless voice.

“I’m glad you understand my difficulties. I couldn’t risk public exposure, not in the present political situation… These Korean elections… Well… you don’t need to know about that, do you? That’s why I was biding my time, waiting for a chance to intervene. I’m glad that now Sherlock’s life is in the hands of an honourable man,” he concludes contentedly, “and hope I can rely on your discretion. We have a deal, then?”

“No,” John says abruptly.

“I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“He’s been abused. Tortured. All this time. Did you know that? Do you call it a disgrace?”

“Surely he must be exaggerating if that’s what he’s told you. He has always been very manipulative, so convincing when he needs to provoke pity…”

“…or maybe,” John goes on heavily, “you did know that too. It’s so easy to sit and wait until they break him, rein his temper in, and then – here you are, his saviour, the one he should be grateful to… No difficult relationships after that... Like hell it’s gonna happen! You are not his family, not anymore. _I am_ his family, at least while he’s mine.”

“I believe it won’t be for long,” Mr. Holmes assumes – still polite, but noticeably less friendly, “and if you imagine that Sherlock will be appreciative enough to continue his association with you – I mean this profitable poker teaming, for it can be the only compensation for sharing company with him, not taking… more private delights into account – you are terribly wrong, I assure you. Your gambling business seems to be booming since you and he became pals, but Sherlock won’t cling to anyone, he gets bored fast. So you’d better obtain whatever money you can right now.”

Without a word, John turns to go.

“Most unwise,” the soft persuasive voice rustles behind him. “Don’t make me order you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” John mutters under his breath.

“I will give you time to think it over,” Holmes the Elder calls after him with the same suavity. “Tell Sherlock about my offer, that job in the Middle East. I guess he’ll be willing to change the surroundings, regardless of your decision.”

The feeling of being watched doesn’t leave John as he walks away, but when he finally looks back, the black car is gone. He’s still shaking inwardly, though his hands are steady. Trying to gather himself, he stops to buy a newspaper, not sure how he should tell Sherlock about the unpleasant encounter. A catching headline attracts his attention. “Antiquities smuggling scandal… Jade hairpin over a thousand years old…”

And below it – a picture of a familiar black-eyed man escorted by police. There is a look of surprise on his face.

***

The first thing John sees after rushing up the stairs, with the newspaper for Sherlock, is his own laptop on the desk. With the same picture on the screen. And similar headlines. “Ancient relics of China, purchased on the black market… Chinese authorities demand the extradition of…”

Sherlock’s whole face seems to light up with a sudden grin as he nods at the photo of his abuser. “You’ve seen it. A slight chance for him to worm out of it. An international scandal, and straight after those unfortunate Korean elections. Our officials won’t risk a conflict with China, they need a sentence delivered as soon as possible. A few years of slavery, at least. Oh, it's Christmas! I look forward to the court case.”

He pushes himself to his feet, unable to stay in place, overwhelmed with feverish exultation.

Something clicks in John’s head, a chain of events unfolding in his memory as he automatically places the groceries upon the nearest horizontal surface, which happens to be an armchair. Sherlock – asking him if they could go gambling in Chinatown… Zhi Zhu, the Spider… All those valuable antiquities being sold by the Black Lotus, under his control... And Sherlock’s previous master accused of it – the one who had, according to Sherlock, ‘a slight misunderstanding’ with Shan, the late Black Lotus general. Right before her death, presumably.

“Sherlock, you had something to do with it.” It’s more of an assertion than a question.

Sherlock stops pacing, the grin widens again. “Ye-es.”

“You had a word with Zhi Zhu, while I was talking to Lestrade.”

“Of course I did. Oh John!” Sherlock crosses the room in a few steps and grabs his shoulders on an impulse, disturbingly close and radiant, as if to spin round with him, sharing the joy… It’s only a moment of uncontrolled excitement – and then Sherlock lets him go and throws himself into the only vacant armchair, leaving John confused, dizzy with this sudden contact. Sherlock’s still in his cotton pjs and a thin grey t-shirt, and his feet are bare, and he looks breathtakingly beautiful. (John gives himself a mental slap. It’s not what he should be thinking about right now.)

Sherlock seems to have calmed down, and maybe he regrets being so emotional, for his expression is slightly taut.

“You want details, I guess,” he assumes evenly. “Well… It’s a story of a few mistakes. The first one – you should never leave an enemy unattended in your own house. Even when he’s… seemingly tamed. Just a naked shivering mess.” A muscle twitches in Sherlock’s cheek, he looks at his hands as if wondering why they are clasped so tight – but resumes in the same casual tone, “And it’s even more stupid to leave your laptop in his sight. Even if it is password protected, all the contents enciphered. I was… more than unwell then… and I didn’t have much time… Should have thought of something to save myself, but kept looking for evidence to charge him instead,” his gaze sticks to the photo on the screen. “I knew he was responsible for murders, fraud, blackmail, a whole variety of crimes, not just illegal gambling… but I found no proof. The only thing I’d managed to do then was to have his online conversations saved. Hoped to check them afterwards, with the system compromised… I had no opportunity, until now. And there it was – another mistake. A series of messages to a woman I knew to be dead. With a veiled threat on the same day she was shot.”

It was not quite proof for a murder charge. Insufficient for the court. But Sherlock supposed there would be another interested party, ready to pay attention to this most suspicious coincidence. For the woman was nothing less than the Black Lotus general, Shan.

“…and a Chinese gang is more than a woman or a man at the top of it. A vast network. An organization with traditions. Almost a cult. They would have never left Shan’s murder unavenged if they knew who was responsible for it. I just had to provide them with this information. The problem was to find someone from the Black Lotus, to pass a message to Shan’s successor. I didn’t know who it was. Luckily, you did. Then – a word whispered, a link sent… And that was the end of our mutual acquaintance. I hope Zhi Zhu will pay him an unfriendly visit in jail, to explain who has fixed it.” Sherlock’s lips twitch in a brief smirk, not radiant at all, just bitter and unpleasant. “It’s always more fun to ruin your enemy’s life than just to kill him, so I was told once. Zhi Zhu seems to be of the same opinion.”

“How did you prove he was smuggling? You said there was nothing to incriminate him.”

“True. No crime to be traced back to him, though he had… um… business connections with Shan. The only way to get him to prison was… cheating. Gave Zhi Zhu a few tips how to fabricate the case – I could have been a good consulting criminal, it seems. With all the operatives the Black Lotus has, it was a matter of a few hours. To forge the evidence. To inform police. To stir the media up. No doubt Zhi Zhu has people in both departments… Must have been a nice scene, the arrest. Oh, how does it happen that you own this lovely jade hairpin, recently stolen in China? It’s the first time you see this pretty thing on your table – how very strange. Why is it put up for an internet auction, then, with your name as the vendor? C’mon, who’d believe someone could have planted such a treasure on you, just to see you framed? But actually, the Black Lotus can afford it – to show that no-one should ever mess with them like he did. Meanwhile, the hairpin returns to China where it can be stolen again…”

John is still digesting the news, without saying anything, and Sherlock’s mouth hardens into a determined line. “I know what you must be thinking. You would prefer it to be a fair prosecution. But I don’t care that it isn’t. I’m just bloody happy.”

John sighs. “No, it’s not that… Why didn’t you tell me what you were up to?”

It isn’t meant as an accusation. But Sherlock must have been expecting this question, for he turns away with a pained look on his face, the inner light gone completely by now.

“Thought you wouldn’t be happy to know I was looking for the Tong members. Selfish, wasn’t it. To involve you in all this, after what you’ve done for me. The thing Lestrade said, about putting you to trouble, quite thoughtlessly… That was true. I always live up to my reputation.”

His hands are still clasped firmly in front of him, fingers interlaced – an unintentionally defensive gesture, and John suddenly feels a jab of pity. Why would you think of sharing your plans with someone after having to cope on your own for so long, struggling to stay alive and sane.

“Sherlock, it’s alright,” he says, “nothing happened to me, and nothing probably could. Look, I have other good news for you.” He wants to sound reassuring, but Sherlock stares at him warily – perhaps his tone is not convincing enough.

“You’ve been a while,” Sherlock says, his fingers tapping against the armrests, in a nervous staccato. “Took you more time to get the shopping than it should have, even presuming you were in no hurry. You’re upset, and yet – it’s good news. Concerning me. A phone call? The papers ready?” He leans forward… then freezes and adds slowly, “No. Stupid. Something else.”

“They will be,” John reassures him, uneasily. “Just a few days left.” It’s strange, come to think of it, that Sherlock has never asked if (or when) he’ll be disenthralled. Surely he must have figured it out that John is about to free him, and yet – not a word. Now he looks startled, having mentioned it out of place. “We’ll have to go through some formalities,” John continues, “but that’s not what I was going to say. I’ve met your brother… and…”

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, “he knows, then. Not really a surprise. Did he offer you money to buy me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should have. Think it through. He can be tediously persistent, especially when motivated – there must be something, since he’s found time in his busy schedule to meet you.”

Sherlock draws his knees up, curling in the armchair, and wraps his arms around them. John is already regretting he has started this conversation. They should be celebrating Sherlock’s successful vengeance now, not discussing his brother, but it was necessary to tell him sooner or later, and John wanted to do it more or less delicately.

“It’s not that your brother is good news,” he admits. “To be honest, he’s an arrogant sod. I don’t think you should even talk to him before you are free. But after that… He has a suggestion for you, a job in the Middle East. Appropriate for your intellect, according to him. He said you’d be interested.”

Sherlock sniffs, “And here is the reason for his concern. He wants me to solve puzzles for him. Matters of national importance. Again. Well, it could be interesting, yes. A far more sensible option than staying in London. I think I’ll accept. At least I can still be valued for my analytical abilities. As for Mycroft’s arrogance… I’m perfectly aware of what he must be thinking of me, knowing the circumstances, so don’t be subtle. I don’t really care. I can deal with it. I’ll be fine.”

Won’t you ask me if _I’ll_ be fine if you leave, a twinge of pain flashes through John’s mind.

“No need to agree at once,” he says. “There will be an account in your name, with half of the money we’ve won together, so you won’t be needing anything while you get yourself sorted. I mean, after your documents are ready and all that. Maybe it’s gonna take you a while to adjust to… normal life, but it’s not a reason to rush decisions. You can stay here. I just want to say that you have alternatives.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, frowning, face bent down – there is something utterly wrong with its expression.

“Will you say something?” John suggests.

A swift upward glance. “What are you expecting of me?” Sherlock hisses, all of a sudden. “Gratitude for your generous offer? In what form? You’ve already shown me that you won’t take what I can give you. Though you still want it – to fuck me, don’t you?” he breathes out almost with hate. “But of course, of course you won’t. A man of strong moral principle. Good Samaritan!” On Sherlock’s lips it sounds like cursing.

“Sherlock…” John stands in front of him, feeling shamefully exposed. Mortified. Helpless. _It’s unfair to mention that, even if it’s so obvious that I want you – no reason to scoff at me – not my fault – I’m your friend, or I could be, I’ve done nothing to deserve this scorn… have I?_ “Sherlock, you shouldn’t think you owe me,” he mutters, with a creepy feeling that every word is only making things worse somehow. “I’m not asking anything from you…”

“Neither am I,” Sherlock snaps. “Actually, I didn’t even beg you to save me from the den. Merely a hint from my part. Your own choice completely.”

John’s left hand starts trembling slightly. No. Not now. Not now, dammit!

“Am I being rude?” Sherlock inquires, with annihilating, caustic disdain. “Shouldn’t be a shock for you. As I have warned you many times, I’m not a very nice person. Your tolerance is marvellous, but I wonder what happens if I finally manage to wind you up one day. Are good Samaritans capable of turning into bad Samaritans, for a change? What could you possibly do? Hit me? Threaten to withdraw your application? Hand me over to my dear brother Mycroft? But I guess you’ll prefer just to leave, like you always do when I confuse you. Did I get it right?”

He did.

 _Not now, not again_ , John repeats to himself desperately, fists clenched, steps firm. If only he could get to his room before this weakness catches up with him! _Hold on. Just hold on. You’re laughable and pathetic enough even without your bloody psychosomatic deformity._

“John, please…” Sherlock calls after him, in a tense strangled voice. “John… I am…”

John doesn’t stop.

***

A sleepless night, a soporific pill, the curtains shut tight – it’s more than enough for passing out in the middle of the day. Staying conscious means revolving in a whirl of the same words, shame and self-pity, and John hopes to slide into black oblivion, devoid of thoughts and visions.

No mercy like that.

_He dreams of coming out of the room on the second floor, the empty one, and stealing down the squeaky stairs. The living-room is darkened and chilly, with shattered glass and blank cards all over the floor. The place looks abandoned, but there is a familiar figure in the old leather armchair._

_It’s the one who’s been sleeping on his shoulder, gambling and laughing with him, guarding his back in a fight. The one._

_John wants to rush forward (something wrong must have happened, but you are here, you are safe…) when a shadow floats out of the darkness behind the armchair, two unlike faces melt into one, distorted, constantly changing, but still recognizable. This nameless Janus-like creature in an old-fashioned suit lays his (their?!) hands on Sherlock’s shoulders in a greedy gesture, “I assume you’re not going to keep him. Is it because you find his body a bit second-handish, like I do, like he does? But he can still be of some use – solving puzzles for me. Dealing with matters of national importance. A task quite appropriate to his extraordinary mental abilities, as I have already told you. They are still intact, more or less, when his rather confusing mixed emotions are not involved. Don’t worry about his fate, Mr. Watson. Sherlock will enjoy being exploited like that. More than performing duties of indecent and perverse character, however delightful they may be. He’ll be getting what he needs so much. Appreciation. Applause. Which are so easily mistaken for love. And if he lets me down once, we can always repeat the lesson and see whether he prefers to work with his pretty arse – or his brilliant mind.”_

_Sherlock is silent, face bent down, hidden beneath the wave of dark curls. Hands pressed together._

_“Sherlock,” John calls, “look at me.”_

_“Sherlock,” the shadow man repeats, mockingly, “why don’t you just look.” He digs his fingers into the curly hair, yanking Sherlock’s head back. And it’s the same glance John saw in the den when their eyes met. The same pain. Not much hope. And stubborn will burning deep beneath the veneer of cold, blank indifference._

_“Tell Mr. Watson you’ll be fine,” suggests the shadow._

_“I’ll be fine, John,” Sherlock echoes, toneless._

_“Good boy. Well-up in cheating. What would you like me to make him say next? A few words of farewell? You’ll probably never see him again, Mr. Watson. He thought you’d be upset about parting with him – and good news for him would be a teensy bit distressing for you. Slip of the tongue. But clearly he was wrong. Men of high moral principle, like you and me, have nothing in common with filthy slaves, unless we need them for some purpose. Sherlock tends to forget how to behave himself in presence of his master. Don’t you think he needs correction? He has no place left where I can strike him… metaphorically speaking… but he won’t ignore_ you _. There is still time to hurt him while he’s yours. Now, Sherlock, tell our soldier fellow – “please, sir, punish me”. I’m sure you’ll be sincere this time, you know you deserve it.”_

_“Please,” Sherlock says hoarsely. “Please, John…”_

_Under John’s feet, the blank cards are slowly turning red, a heart bleeding on each and every of them._

***

No shattered glass, no cards in the murky living-room, of course. And Sherlock is not curling in the armchair anymore – he’s standing at the window, between the parted curtains, unseeing gaze fixed on the dun-coloured wall of the empty house across the street. The world outside is dreary and dismal. Neutral-tinted. Dull.

At least I can still be valued for my analytical abilities, he said. Like there is nothing else left for him but his work.

“Sherlock, do you think I’ll be glad to get rid of you?”

He doesn’t look back. “Won’t you?” Before John can say anything, he suddenly chuckles, “You’ve been so considerate. So unbearably considerate. But I’m not blind, John. I can see the signs, they are so palpable. You stare at my lips – and then avoid looking at me. Flinch when I touch you. Disappear from the flat after having had to spend a night beside me… A purely physical attraction, that’s what you feel – and you find it shameful. Disgusting. Creates a tension, doesn’t it?”

“Sherlock…”

“I quite understand that,” he adds bitterly. “You are the one who’d want serious relationships – something normal – a family – domestic bliss, not just entertainment for a few nights, and I’m only fitting for the second category – obviously. However tolerant and kind you may be, and despite all the sympathy, you’ll never forget that you’re dealing with someone… unclean.” He drops these words with listless conviction, both hands pressed against the window pane. “My presence must be most disturbing, even when I’m not acting… like… I usually do. I knew I would have to leave sooner or later. Just thought it would take more time. And now – this job… and you tell me – surely you can stay, but perhaps you’ll consider an alternative… Everything is so evident that an explanation is superfluous.”

“Now hang on a minute, I didn’t mean…”

“Oh, you meant to say 'please, get out as soon as possible' in a nice way. But you don’t need to be nice. You’ve already done more than you should have. And that’s the problem. This sudden compassion – it’s addictive. Makes you assume for a moment that maybe it’s more than charity. That maybe… if we met before all this… I don’t suppose you would have liked me, of course. No one does. But I keep thinking what could have happened if you were not ashamed of wanting me…” Sherlock’s voice falters – and he growls crossly: “Sometimes I wish you would do something nasty. Hit me. Rape me. So that I would stop imagining preposterous things. But you are always so torturously, insufferably kind!”

A thud of both palms against the window pane – and Sherlock freezes again.

“Sherlock, look at me.” John wants to lay his hands upon Sherlock’s shoulders, replacing all the shadows that may haunt him, and there must have been so many of them – dark moths gathering around his light. His “loving family”. His police associates who called him a freak, despite the fact he was helping them. The lustful crowd at the den, ready to tear him apart. Everyone just wanted to use his mind or his body, treating him like an inanimate object – a reasoning machine or an instrument for satisfying carnal desires. Making him feel that he doesn’t deserve anything else.

“Sherlock, I wouldn’t call you unclean. Never.” John stands so close that he can reach out and touch Sherlock’s tense arms and the strained muscles of his back, lightly, soothingly – but he doesn’t dare. “Tell me this. Do you think you should despise me because I was wounded? Do you think _I am_ unclean?”

Sherlock turns back, lips pressed tight, like he’s fighting physical pain.

“It’s not the same.”

“It is. You are a survivor, just like me. We are both… damaged. That’s terrible, sad, but not shameful at all. And what makes you think, by the way, that I wouldn’t have liked you if we’d met before – and that I don’t like you now?”

Sherlock protests obstinately, still avoiding eye contact: “I know that you want to comfort me, John, but I don’t need pity. I prefer to be realistic. Call things by their names. Honestly – how would you describe me, John? Selfish? Stubborn? Harsh?”

“Extraordinary,” John exhales, unable to repress the urge to cup Sherlock’s face pinched with dislike for himself – and to make this fool look straight into his eyes. “You’re bloody extraordinary, don’t you know that? Brave enough to fight even when you are barely standing. Resourceful. Dynamic. Full of energy. Nothing like other people. Nothing like me.” He lets his hands drop and concludes less emphatically, abashed by this outburst: “And definitely you are an idiot. You see through everyone and everything in seconds – how can it be that you are so spectacularly ignorant about some things? You notice the signs, yes, but you misinterpret them. I wanted you to feel free, that’s all. You don’t owe me, you don’t belong to me, Sherlock… But you must know that I am – yours… I’m just not expecting anything in return. So,” John adds, a bit awkwardly, “you see – never work on assumptions. As to your words – what would happen if you’d met me under other circumstances…” he smirks mirthlessly. “I think you wouldn’t have even noticed me. A dull man with a limp.”

“Dull? That’s not what I would call you, John.”

“How would you call me, then?”

Sherlock leans in suddenly, eyes bright and shining. “I would most gladly call you mine.”

At first, it’s only a brief tentative touch of lips against lips. The next moment – it’s a kiss, desperate and feverish. Frantic. They almost knock the desk over (luckily, the laptop survives), at least two buttons of John’s shirt end up somewhere on the carpet – to hell with them! – he’s too busy reaching under Sherlock’s t-shirt, hungry to touch the smooth skin. Eventually, Sherlock pins him against the wall at the entryway to the kitchen, muttering his name, his mouth hot and seeking. John’s fingers dig into Sherlock’s shoulder-blades, heat is flooding between his legs, making him painfully sensitive. They don’t stop even for a second in reckless haste, filled with raw need, rubbing against each other, sucking, biting, leaving bruises, leaving marks. Hands grasping, groping, palming, squeezing, stroking. Shared breath, a low whine from mouth to mouth. Hearts pounding. “John… Oh John…” – a hoarse murmur against his shoulder – and John comes right there and then, writhing, feeling that Sherlock jerks against him too, coming as well.

It was not how John imagined it could be – he thought he’d manage to be tender and attentive and careful… well, he failed. Maybe next time won’t be like this.

But for now, Sherlock fortunately seems quite contented, inquiring pragmatically: “Does this mean that I move from the sofa to your room?”

***

The scene is so frighteningly ideal that John feels he must be dreaming. But on the other hand, his dreams are never that peaceful, so probably everything is real – the cosy golden lamplight, clothes scattered on the floor at random and this amazing lithe body sprawled gracefully across his bed.

It’s strange to see Sherlock so relaxed. His delicate fingers are tracing John’s scar – long, wide, going up and over to his back, and this caress is unexpectedly intimate and moving.

John wishes he could soothe Sherlock’s invisible scars like that. Ease his soul, still bruised, blistered, stained with blood and dirt, surrounded with ice packs – no wonder why.

That’s what he’s thinking of, planting a kiss at the hollow between Sherlock’s collarbones. Gently brushing the small birthmarks at the base of the slender neck with his tongue – as well as the healed traces of cigarette burns under Sherlock’s left armpit. Adoring the tight dark pink nipples before skimming further down… touching, tasting, exploring… making the lean body beneath him squirm and arch up so beautifully… John has never been good with words, so that’s his way of saying – I need you, need you so much, Sherlock. With your troubled past, your self-loathing, your tantrums. With your perception that nobody could ever love you.

That’s his way of saying – I’m here for you. I always will be.

If it’s not decent – who cares about decent!

“Um…” Sherlock murmurs afterwards, his hand clutching possessively at the nape of John’s neck. “John… You know, Mycroft rarely has brilliant ideas dawning upon him, but his suggestion that I should leave London seems quite reasonable, under the circumstances. Our unfortunate smuggler has a pack of friends and employees, and it’s very likely that they will devote their energies to finding me. So maybe it really makes sense to go abroad for a while when my documents are ready.”

“You’re still considering your brother’s offer?” John feels his voice coming as if from a distance, his heart suddenly missing a beat.

Sherlock winces. “Of course not. Don’t be like that. No eastern countries this time of year – hate sunburns. Besides, you didn’t seem to get along with my brother, which is hardly surprising. No, I’ve been thinking of Europe actually. Germany. Switzerland maybe. Decent gambling houses. Wealthy people. Expensive jewelry stolen, blackmail letters delivered, memory sticks with important data gone missing... Plenty of job for you and me. But I’ll probably be a dangerous companion, mind that.”

It’s not that John knows much about life in Switzerland – well, this country is famous for its banks, chocolate and SIG-Sauers, is this information sufficient for planning a trip? – but his experience of camp life in Afghanistan has at least had the effect of making him a prompt and ready traveller. As for the danger… Despite his common sense, he’s always been a risk taker. Especially when the stake was worth risking.

“Alright,” he says. “No problem.”

It’s late at night, and they both are still lingering on the verge of slumber, bodies pressed warmly against each other, when a whisper tickles John’s ear, just like in the den: “I’ll never be able to make you perfectly happy. You know that.”

“Fine. Good. I’ll be imperfectly happy, then,” John mutters sleepily, face buried against Sherlock’s neck, right at his pulse point. He can feel Sherlock’s heart beating steadily, and somehow it’s very comforting.

Here and now, they are together and alive. It’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me on [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com/) or check out my M/M BDSM novel [Tenderly Wicked](https://www.amazon.com/Tenderly-Wicked-Katerina-Ross-ebook/dp/B01LYGUJ02/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1473767605&sr=1-1#nav-subnav) and my paranormal M/M series [The Sons of Gomorrah](http://a.co/0ttTWNF) if you're so inclined :)


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